


you changed your number

by gingergenower



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/M, Musician Captain Hook | Killian Jones, emma has a lot of her season 1 issues, emma's job is canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8004217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingergenower/pseuds/gingergenower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the prompt- 'we broke up after I left and moved away and months later I find out you rushed to the airport to stop me but you were too late.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	you changed your number

The very bones of Emma are so heavy they drag her into sleep. Clean sheets and a stakeout, a long one, it doesn’t matter the time- it’s like drowning thirty metres under the surface. You look at the distant light, you close your eyes, and you inhale. Surrender is sweeter than a fight.

Well. That’s how she used to sleep.

Queens is soft, next to Manhattan. It’s quieter and the whole block is full of people she doesn’t know and don’t know her. She’s not awake because she’s listening to anything- she can hear the clock ticking in the kitchen, the springs creaking under her when she shifts. Her feet are a touch cold, but it’s early fall and turning on the heating would be a waste but that’s not keeping her awake, either, loneliness and the cold come hand in hand and she’s had plenty of both.

No. She’s awake, because all she wants is water in her lungs and depth she can’t escape, please, the air’s too clear and her brain’s too loud, she just wants to breathe it in-

Sitting up, her clock reminds her it’s only 3am. She stumbled through the door an hour ago.

She pulls on a hoodie, and flicks open her laptop at the kitchen counter, and begins to look for him. 

There’s no time difference between them at all, Maine isn’t so far it’s the other side of the world, and for the first time in six months she’s not wondering why they ever thought they would work, she’s wondering how could they not.

He’s not good at anonymity like she is, her job asks her to watch, not participate, so she finds him easy enough.

It’s a bar that boasts live music, Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday nights. There are famous names lined up next to unknowns, and he’s got a whole night. He’s got Saturday. Saturday’s are gold dust, the first time he got three songs on a Saturday he cried, and she’d never seen him cry before and never saw it since, but she was front and centre that night. The crowd, leery and loud, talked over him, and the shine of it was him, it wasn’t them, and some people listened and someone asked if he had a CD to buy, and, well. He beamed, and handed him one, and they talked for twenty minutes about their favourite artists. Emma bought herself another drink and watched them.

_Killian Jones, it reads. Acoustic guitar and vocals, September 15th._

She has two days, and his name squeezes her lungs. There’s something musical about it, she tells him, shrugging because they’re never serious. His name. Changing it for the stage would be pointless.

Drowning’s better than compression, she decides.

***

The next day, she’s not even sure it’s still his number, but she calls it.

Leaving Maine wasn’t hard to do. She had him and a beat-up car and less and less work. He lives with his brother, she struggled to pay rent, she was offered better pay and longer hours in New York. She moved. That’s life, isn’t it? It’s slow in its sadness, and you can hope for ecstasy but it’ll be fleeting and you’ll be lost again. She never thought she did the wrong thing, loneliness is good to her. It’s numb.

Then, David. He wanted to get a drink, catch up, Monday night. He asked why it fell apart, and there was too much between them. Space, maybe. And he let it slip- Killian went to the airport, he tried to stop her leaving, he wanted her there and she’d left him. She climbed into the sky, and he wrote a song in the airport he never sings because he can’t get through it. David’s seen him try.

The call doesn’t go through to voicemail. A cool, female voice tells her the number doesn’t exist anymore, so she hangs up.

***

Saturday, she’s in Maine.

The bar’s packed, barely breathing room but she likes it that way, tucking herself in at the back next to the bar. She’s drinking cider because she can’t get drunk on it but she needs to do something with her hands, and she’s no idea why she’s here, except he comes in with his guitar and she knows exactly why.

His hair’s longer, swept up higher, and that leather jacket’s new, all zips not buckles. Eyeliner more practised, thinner and smudged easier, his eyes are the kind of blue that makes her knees give, but he doesn’t see her, sights set on the bar, guitar slung over his back.

She could go up now. Fear, a little bit, holds her back, but mostly she might ruin his set, she can’t throw him off before he goes on.

Three bottles later, he’s finishing up, and she’s wished six times for ear plugs because some of these songs he sang to her, like they were written for her, and some of them she doesn’t know, and what’s worse? He says goodnight, voice bright and face flushed from the heat, because it’s hot in there, and she moves like he must have in the airport. There’s nothing and no one that’ll help him leave now, she came too far and she doesn’t know what she’s going to say.

There are three people in front of her that want his CD, six more that want his attention, and he works through all of them and what does she say why is she here does she know what she’s _doing_ -

His eyes meet hers, and she swallows, because if there was ever a time to surrender it’s now.

“You went to the airport.”

“Emma.” 

She points her thumb over her shoulder. “Outside?”

He nods, following her. She bites her bottom lip and it bleeds, licking it clean before she turns back to him.

“It’s been a while,” he says, plastering on a smile and running a hand through his hair. “How’s New York?”

“You went to the airport.”

He clears his throat, weight on one foot, then the other. “You see, love-”

“You never said, either way. You never said you wanted me to stay. You just let me go, I thought you let me _go_ -”

“I did.”

“You’re over me?”

Holding her gaze, he nods. “Yes.”

“But you went to the airport?”

“-yeah. I did.”

She sucks in a breath, and god. Drowning. Sleep isn’t drowning, this is, this is hopelessness like being at the surface, but the current drags you down and your fingers touch air but the rest of you can’t, snatching in half breaths and you’re barely surviving, air is so _close_ \- 

Dear heart, just give in. There’s not enough oxygen left in the world to repair this, let it go now. There’s nothing more to be done.

Closing her eyes, she nods, and she opens them. Her fake smile is pained. “Okay. It was a great set, by the way. Your new songs were great.”

The corner of his mouth goes to pull up into a smirk, he loves to smirk and comment and never say what he feels-

Something shifts, and he frowns. “You came from New York to ask about the airport?”

“You never told me about it.”

“Why did you come all this way?”

“You changed your number.”

He shakes the thought away. “No, you came here just to see-”

“It’s too late,” she says, shaking her head. She’s talking to convince herself. “You- you came to stop me, at the airport, but you don’t feel that way anymore.”

It scares her. He can still read her, it take him _seconds_. “Did you… you never knew? How did you not know?”

“We never got serious, we never-”

“Emma, I loved you.”

“You never said-”

“I thought I didn’t need to. I thought you _knew_ , my first album was _you_ , it was one long goddamn love letter, Jesus, how-”

Emma steps back, shaking it away. “It’s too late. I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I guess- I guess I don’t know what love is.”

How can any orphan know? It doesn’t thrum through her like normal people, she wasn’t taught it, she’ll probably never learn it-

“Did you love me?”

His hands are half-up, to placate or catch as needed; eyes focussed on her, thoughts unbroken and clear; he’s stepped closer, and he’s not yet edging forward.

“I…”

“Did you come back for me?”

“I needed to _know_ -”

“Emma.” He breathes the word like it’s his last, and she shivers.

Words are too hard. She nods.

He throws his head back, hand over his eyes, his breathing shaking. “ _Jesus_.” His voice cracks. He’s crying again.

Her gut drops out, and he only cries when he’s happy, is he happy, how can this be happiness-?

He grabs her, drags her flush against his body, and he’s crying into her shoulder and laughing, and he’s saying something but she can’t hear what, and it’s all she can do push him off.

She stares at him, but he doesn’t say anything. He waits. He was always good at that.

Maybe…

“You… still?”

He’s wiping away tears when he grins and nods, and it’s her turn, because he’s happy and she’s _tired_ , sleeping isn’t drowning in his arms, sleeping is _floating_ , and he mops her up with his sleeve and she grins, and he watches her, eyes searching. He exhales.

“Got a place to stay?”

“I haven’t got a return ticket,” she shrugs, because she half-emptied her savings buying that last minute ticket, and she wasn’t thinking beyond him, and he knows it.

“I’ve got my own place, now.”

“Spare sofa?”

“No. I’ve got a spare side of the bed, though.”

She shrugs, like it’ll do, and he laughs. “Just so you know, these last three months have changed me. My favourite sleeping position is the starfish.”

He rolls his eyes, throwing an arm around her and pulling her close. “Love, that’s how you always slept.”

“No it wasn’t!”

“Was.”

“Wasn’t.”

“Was.”

He pokes her in the ribs, and makes her jump, but she’s not breathless until he kisses her.

**Author's Note:**

> okay? not okay? I'm not sure about this one.


End file.
